


what will survive of us is love

by shoulderbladesarewings



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-08 01:34:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6833410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoulderbladesarewings/pseuds/shoulderbladesarewings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blind AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	what will survive of us is love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annanotesxo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annanotesxo/gifts).



> for annanotesxo

I was not born blind, like some of the people in my support group. Neither did I lose my eyes to cancer or degenerative diseases, like most. They sit there in a circle with their dark glasses or stuck-shut eyes and chant _Me too. Me too. Me too_ like metronomes _._ For every story, there are at least two others who can relate.

This is not the case for me. It is a stupid thing to find important – the means rather than the end – but nevertheless it is to me worth noting that my means were relatively, if not wholly, unique.

I didn’t know Alex Cleck very well but he was in the school Stonewall group with me (I seem to have spent my entire life in and out of support groups of some sort) and sometimes we’d smile at each other in the corridors, a tenuous bond formed purely by circumstance and bad luck. I’d never have dreamed for a second he had any interest in me whatsoever. He was one of those guys you did your best not to notice at school; the geek who wrote computer code for video games and jumped at loud noises. The last person, it occurs to me, who anyone would expect to be gay. That was probably lucky for him. He got bullied enough as it was.

They tortured him. Unlike most, scared to speak ill of the dead, I have never been afraid to admit it.

One time when we were sixteen they ambushed him in the library after school, dragged him down to the locker room, tied him to a chair and beat the literal shit out of him. They posted the photos on Facebook that night. I saw them and I stared and then I went back to my History homework. I asked him the next day at Stonewall if he was OK. He looked at me with his grotesque black eyes and missing front tooth and said yes. The others in the group didn’t see fit to act upon it because the bullies’ motive hadn’t been his sexuality. They left it to him to fight for himself.

Who can blame him for trying? Not even me.

He came into school rigged with wires and armed with an antique hunting rifle his father had used to hunt foxes with before it was banned. He’d hidden it in a guitar case belonging to his brother.

He’d planned it out beautifully. He knew that his tormenters would be in the cafeteria at break time so he quietly bolted the doors on either side, trapping one Year 7’s fingers in his blind, calm fury. He fired one warning shot into the air to get our attention and then, gunpoint on his side, lined up Robbie, Preston, Andrew and Tom against the wall while everyone else cowered under the bright yellow tables and cried into their hands.

At the last moment, he called my name. _Louis._

When I didn’t answer he grabbed a random girl trembling by the vending machine and announced to the general public that he’d put a bullet through her brain if I didn’t show myself.

I stepped forward and he pushed me against the wall, in the centre of his persecutors like a blue bead in a bag of red; the perfect basis for a mathematical equation. What are the odds of picking the blue?

I was still trying to figure out what I’d done wrong when, one by one, he shot each of them in the face. Red beads now indeed, attached to bodies that buckled at the knees and collapsed in glossy pools of their own comeuppance. They’d been close; he’d made sure of that. It was all over me too. I remember thinking _paint ketchup crayon dye_ continuously, incessantly, a subconscious attempt to stop myself throwing up.

By now the sirens were sounding. Keeping the rifle trained on me, he shrugged his rucksack off and pulled out a bottle of industrial-strength oxidiser. _Louis,_ he whispered. _Come with me._

I looked him right in the irises. I remember that everybody else was invisible in that moment. It was him and me, locked, the most contact we’d ever shared and yet somehow he’d thought I would kill myself for him. Perhaps I should have just agreed. But that thought never even crossed my mind. Firmly, I shook my head.

His blazing blue eyes were the last thing I ever saw because that was when he threw half the bleach into my face.

So. Sort of a unique perspective on blindness.

They told me that Alex drank the rest of the bleach. It burnt most of his insides away. I still wonder if he was just trying to scour through the evil.

 

*

When I was about twelve, my friends and I went through a stage of playing _Would You Rather._ And inevitably, along with _Would you rather be a dog or a cat?_ and _Would you rather die by fire or water?_ came the seemingly pointlessly hypothetical question of _Would you rather be blind or deaf?_

I always chose blind. I was a music lover who could spend hours in the dark with my headphones in, perfectly content. I couldn’t imagine ever truly missing sunsets and sculptures and scenery; the trappings of the privileged and listless who have nothing better to do with their lives than sit outside and gaze blankly at another arbitrary construct of beauty, only a rung above the coat-hanger women on catwalks with failing organs and rotting teeth.

But, in the end, that’s not the kind of thing you miss. It’s people. I don’t particularly care about whether I can look out of my window at night and observe the glory of chronic light pollution – the wind on my face is enough for me – but I’ve never experienced anything so frustrating as hearing a person speak and not being able to put a face to their voice. In some ways I have the advantage over those who were born blind or can’t remember having 20/20 vision in that I can still appreciate verbal description, and I do have the wherewithal to at least attempt to paint a picture in my head – but, at the same time, it means I have so much more to _miss._

Incidentally, I said I’d rather die by fire, which from what I can gather is also fairly unusual. People associate water with painlessness, and a beautiful, tragic death like something out of _Hamlet._ Who wouldn’t want that?

Me. I like to think I’d be able to embrace the pain. I’d want to die feeling something (and don’t even get me started on Ophelia, killing herself for a manic depressive man-child too anti to ever deserve the title of hero). Furthermore, I think of fire as having a significance that water doesn’t. Witches were burnt for being different. Catholics and Protestants were burnt for being different (largely at different periods of history, by each other, but still). Some still think gay people will burn in hell for being different.

Call me crazy, but I want to die different. Unlike most I have never been plagued by the need – or for that matter the capacity – to conform.

My dad was distraught by what happened to me, of course, but there was no doubt that he was thrilled it would mean moving schools. I could be the blind one instead of the gay one. Its prospects were twofold: undivided compassionate female attention (he was still convinced I just hadn’t hung around with enough girls yet to be attracted to one), and a get-out-of-jail-free card from bullies. No one wants to be known as the guy who beat up the blind kid.

I haven’t actually started school yet. As you might imagine, I’ve been in intensive care, and equally intensive therapy, for a pretty long time.

I didn’t lose my eyes, just my sight. I suppose that’s positive, although ironically only on an aesthetic level. If I’m being truthful, I do still kind of care how people see me. I’ve never been particularly attractive but in the right clothes I can turn a few heads. Thing is, I don’t know what the right clothes are anymore and it’s not like my dad would know. Nowadays I wear whatever feels silky or warm in my hands.

I live my life by feeling now. I navigate the house with my palms pressed against the wall. The rare times I go outside I draw a radius around each step with my walking stick. The nurses let me touch their faces to tell them apart, and my therapist holds my hand while I speak to let me know she’s still there.

All I have now is what people choose to give me. Sight is the only thing that no one can truly escape. Touch can be avoided. Noise can be silenced. Even smell can be neutralised by deodorant and soap. But no one can make themselves invisible, although I can personally attest to trying, particularly now. Needless to say, it’s even harder when you can’t tell who’s looking. It’s as if all my agency has been ripped out through my eye sockets, leaving me completely at the mercy of the rest of the world.

But in all honesty, support group helps. I know John Green gave the concept a pretty scathing review in that one book every teenager cites nowadays as proof that they care about ‘world issues’, but hey, what does he know. It is comforting to know that there are people in the same shitty situation as you, however nuanced your particular experience is. I can tell you that for free.

 

*

‘Bullet.’

‘Jasmine.’

‘Precious.’

‘Quiet.’

‘Strike.’

It’s difficult to describe how you feel. Now that everything is televised, it’s far more common to figure out someone’s innermost thoughts by their expression. Hardly anyone listens anymore. And now that listening is really our only option (we don’t much fancy sitting around stroking each other like monkeys), we don’t really know what to say. So in the last mini-session of the hour my fellow sightless peers spend together once a week, we sum up our feelings with words that have nothing to do with them, in the hope that we can make each other, and ourselves, understand.

We go around the circle three times. The words I choose are _Chocolate, Elves,_ and _Acid._ I don’t know what I mean by them. They are simply the first that come to mind.

‘Green.’

‘Paint.’

‘Ceiling.’

After a while it does inevitably turn into simple word association.

‘Sky.’

‘Moonbeam.’

‘Howling.’

‘Wound.’

There are thirteen of us. It is the last boy’s turn. I know he is a boy because he is one of the few of us with a distinct rough, low timbre to his voice. His words so far have been _Bullet_ and _Cough._ He tends to pick consonant-heavy nouns with negative connotations. I don’t know what they mean either. Maybe he just reads a lot of dark novels. He sounds like that kind of person.

There is a relatively long pause. It’s supposed to be quick fire but having the last word of the day is a pretty big responsibility, even if there are no real rules here. I speculate dreamily as to what he’ll choose. _Blister? Blood? Bile?_

‘Blind,’ he says simply, and I feel the sharp intake of breath on all sides like I heard the shots the day Alex tried to kill me (they told me I was lucky not to be deafened as well, although my ears ring from time to time). I flinch, resisting the urge to throw my hands up over my face. But I don’t gasp. Because I understand. That’s the only word there is, really. That’s all we’ll be for the rest of our lives as far as the world is concerned. The one thing we will always, always feel, in every part of ourselves. Blind. Blind. Blind.

I make a decision. I speak.

‘Wish.’

Pause. His voice again. ‘Always?’

‘Bleach.’

‘Born.’ Pause. There is a clatter as his feet hit the floor. ‘Come.’

Stunned, I follow his footsteps out of the room.

‘That was weird,’ I hear one of the other boys mutter.

 

*

I’m not yet fully comfortable with my lack of sight, and I think he senses it in my hesitance to put one foot in front of the other because he takes my hand, the one that isn’t holding my cane, and leads me from the building. Fresh air is a shock to my senses now that I can’t see it coming and he grips my hand when I gasp. ‘OK?’

I nearly nod. Then I rethink. ‘Yes.’

We walk on. My spatial awareness isn’t great but I think we’re headed to the centre of the town, a little concrete clearing lined with benches, a statue in the middle of some Greek God spouting water from his crotch. That’s one thing I don’t miss being hit in the face with every time I go for a walk. I may be gay, but I’m not _that_ gay.

He guides me to one of the benches, completely confident in his lack of vision, and then we sit for a while, staring at nothing.

‘Name?’

‘Louis.’

‘Harry.’

Silence. I don’t know why we’re still talking in single words. Is this what he wants? Does he just like challenges? Or is he simply hopeless at conversation, like me?

I realise eventually that it is my turn to speak. I think. ‘Born?’

He makes a noise of affirmation, then says ‘Holes.’

I don’t get it for a minute. Then I do. He has no eyes. None at all. ‘Sorry.’

‘No.’

‘Still.’

Pause. ‘Bleach?’

I hesitate. How to sum it up in less than a sentence? ‘Boy.’

‘Love?’

I laugh, a short sharp burst.

He seems to take it for my chosen response, and clicks his tongue thoughtfully. ‘Unfair.’

I shrug, a hard habit to break. ‘Everything.’

Pause. I twitch as, once again, he stands. ‘Home,’ he explains.

‘Already?’

‘Dark.’

I wonder how he can tell. ‘Help?’

He takes my hand again and, reassured, I get to my feet. We start to walk back. It should feel stupid, that we came all this way to exchange what turned out to be barely ten words, and yet it doesn’t. Somehow, at some point, there was a connection. I feel it in our clasped hands. And when we stop long before we get back to the clinic and he repeats ‘Come?’ I can’t find any other alternative to the word ‘Yes.’

 

*

His parents seem nice. His mother’s hands are soft when she shakes mine, and his father’s voice sounds like his when he says ‘Well, hello there. I take it you’re from support group?’

I make a mental note not to get the two confused. ‘Yeah. My name’s Louis. Nice to meet you.’

Harry nudges me. ‘Do you need to call your parents?’

Hearing him say all of seven words at once has about the same effect on me as if he’d grabbed me by the shoulders and stuck his tongue down my throat. I practically feel lightheaded. ‘Umm…’

He pats the pocket of my jacket. It sounds like he’s smiling. ‘Phone. Parents?’

That’s better. ‘OK.’

I’m still learning how to text without my eyes on the keys. Lack of popularity meant I never felt the need to learn to touch type. Who would have thought being a loser would ever turn around and smack me in the face?

For the moment, I call my dad. ‘Hi.’

‘Louis, what is it? Are you alright? Did you fall?’

‘Dad, I’m fine.’

I register suddenly that Harry is still holding my hand. He’s squeezing my fingers tight.

‘What is it then, love?’

‘Umm…I met someone at the group. Harry. He, well, he invited me back to his house. Is that OK?’

I can feel his mind go into overdrive with terror. If the last boy I came into contact with blinded me permanently then what’s this one going to do; kill me? ‘Louis, I don’t know if…’

‘He’s not going to hurt me.’

Harry taps the phone where it rests against my ear, asking for it. Relieved, I hand it over. I’ve gotten a little too dependent lately on other people sorting out my life for me. Intensive care will kind of do that to you.

It’s weird how hard it is to get distracted nowadays. Harry’s talking to my dad now and I can hear every word, whereas a year ago I would have been staring aimlessly at some painting or counting the cracks in the floorboards, most likely zoning out completely. It’s bizarre how much less input there is with only four senses. I can’t help wondering if people who go deaf or lose their sense of smell feel it quite as much, though. But I can’t bear imagining it. Not least because it would seem way too much like tempting fate.

‘Hello sir. Harry Styles. Yes. Yes, he has. I’m sure. Of course. Don’t worry. Right. Got it. Thank you. Goodbye.’

I hear the beep, and then he slips my mobile gently into my pocket. ‘Hungry?’

My head is whirling with words. I focus on this one, holding on tight. ‘Starving.’

He chuckles, gives my hand a tug. ‘Come.’

He says that a lot. I think I like it. He’s sure of himself. I need that right now, especially from someone who knows what it’s like to be lost in your own house; never quite certain if something has shifted; forever locked in an endless cage of darkness.

 

*

His dad drives us back to his house afterwards, at his insistence.

We had a good time. Dinner was steak and chips and homemade fruit pie which made my teeth hurt with its sweetness (as yet my hearing hasn’t improved noticeably but flavours seem to have far more intensity now, and it doesn’t really make up for anything but it’s interesting nonetheless). I was one hundred percent sure his parents were relishing the freedom to make eyes at each other over their plates, but I didn’t mind. He had to let go of my hand but he pressed his knee up against mine with all the subtlety of a motorbike in Amsterdam. I didn’t mind that either.

Conversation wasn’t technically up to much. His parents asked me questions about school and I replied as best I could given I haven’t been anywhere near one for six months. They tactfully steered clear of the cause of my blindness. Harry didn’t say much which was probably good: I was right to be cautious about mixing him up with his father. I had to rely on my sense of direction to tell which one of them was talking, which is up to approximately nothing. I simply assumed that anything more than three syllables was his dad.

After eating, Harry’s parents left us in the dining room while they did the washing up, and he said ‘Room?’

I wanted to. I wanted to follow him up the shag-carpeted stairs and sit on the edge of his bed and touch his face and see where it went, and maybe even stay the night.

But I was too scared. I couldn’t risk him hurting me. I couldn’t risk him getting the wrong idea. I couldn’t risk being swallowed up by acid and evil ever again.

I told him so, as best I could. ‘Bitten.’

‘Shy,’ he agreed.

‘Sorry.’

‘Understand.’

I hesitated, unsure of how to be polite with the limitations we had set for ourselves, but needing an out. ‘Home?’

‘Choice,’ he said softly.

I expected to be startled by some gesture; stroking my hair or cupping my jaw. I thought he would be that guy, but I was wrong. His chair scraped and then his hand was in mine, pulling me up.

Now, outside my door, I try to find the word I need to let him know how much he has done for me today; how grateful I am to him. But why would he take sound over touch? I want to know what he looks like. I want to know how he tastes.

I reach out hesitantly, trying to find his face in the dark. He grasps my wrists and, blind leading the blind, places my hands either side of it. He rests his on my waist.

We kiss like we are the only two people in the world, which in a way we are: certainly the only two we can sense in this moment. That’s another thing about loss of sight: it blocks out everything but what you are focused on right now. He is everything I have. His lips are chapped and his skin is cold and I am seized by an instant of agonising desire just to know whether he has freckles, possibly one of the stupidest thoughts that has ever crossed my mind. But it fades as I lose myself, and contentment washes over me because I know that even if I wasn’t blind, I would be closing my eyes now. I am not missing anything. I am here, wholly and completely. I am alive.

When we break away, I am trembling. He puts his arms around me and holds me against him. His stomach is soft, but his arms are strong. He is wearing a silky shirt and a hoodie. He is slightly shorter than me. I process this information piece by piece, each one erasing my frustration. I don’t need to see him. There are so many other, truer ways to know someone.

He stands back, and his thumb brushes against my lower lip. ‘Wish?’ he asks quietly.

No. Not anymore. ‘Blind,’ I say simply, and I suppose I’m getting better at hearing because I can definitely sense the click of the world falling into place.


End file.
